#it was strange drawing him again - it had been a while. I used to mostly draw him when I felt terrible as a way of venting

[fauchart]

JUNE 2023 VS JUNE 2013

Decided to redraw a piece from ten years ago that was very important to me back then. Many things changed from that time, and it's always nice to have a look above your shoulder to see how far you've come ♥

The original:

Details under the cut

[lis-likes-fics]

The Sound of His Voice

Pairings: Spencer Reid x agent!Reader Word Count: 3k words Warnings: Descriptions of crime scenes/vague gore, mentions of death and murder, standard Criminal Minds stuff, fluff otherwise... A/N: I started watching CM a while ago and now I can't stop so enjoy this. There will be more, I dunno when. (Should I be working on my months-in-progress-wips? Yes, I absolutely should. Am I? Mostly. I'm trying my best)

Morgan rubs his temple, digging his fingers into the side of his forehead as he shakes his head. Tapping his pen on the desk, he tosses down his file. “But here's what I don't get,” he says, drawing the attention of the rest of the team. “If the unsub thinks of his victims as prey, even going as far as to torture the victim, why go through all the trouble of tucking them into bed?”

Hotch looks back at the picture in his own hands, where he had been analyzing the scene for the hundredth time in search of something he missed the first hundred. He shrugs, “Tucking them in can usually indicate signs of remorse.”

JJ motions to the pictures. “Yeah, but look at this guy. Does this look remorseful to you?”

You lift a shoulder, leaning back in your seat and crossing your arms. “Could be a second unsub.”

You are a relatively new addition to the team. It was your fifth case with them, but they already treated you like part of the team, like family. It was easy to sink into the ebb and flow of everything, especially when they trust your skills and instincts and let you know when you're doing something wrong so you know not to do it again.

But this case was difficult. Your unsub had a strange profile: an organized, white male, with surgical experience and the MO reminiscent of a cat. He kills men and women alike, and the only connection between his victims have been their smaller statures.

The age range itself was too wide, though there was a slight reoccurrence of ages between 25 and 35. But it was still too wide, either way, not enough to work with.

He ties up and tortures them before finally ending their lives with strangulation. He uses his bare hands to get the job done, which makes him a sexual sadist. As if that wasn't enough, he carves out the victim’s heart after death and takes it as a trophy.

He shows plenty of psychopathic characteristics, but he also fits the profile of a sociopath, so it's hard to make anything stick. His MO suggests a lack of empathy and guilt, but the bed-tucking… You always lose him with the bed-tucking…

Morgan shakes his head a little, humming. “But we already ruled out multiple unsubs,” he says. You nod gently. “Besides, if this guy is mimicking the hunting habits of a cat, he would hunt alone, wouldn't he?”

Reid’s head perks up. He points a pen in Morgan's direction as he shakes his head. “Actually, no.” He licks his lips, and he's grabbed your attention like a siren to a sailor. “It's a very common misconception that cats are loners, but it's untrue. Cats prefer the companionship of others just as much as a human being would.”

You lean toward him a bit across the table, watching him as he speaks, his hands moving to illustrate his words as he does. “People often think, because of their aloof nature, that they like to be left alone or actually despise the presence of other people, including their owners or other cats—which is why people believe them to be low maintenance creatures. But they are just as social as, say, a dog. Actually, it's interesting, big cats like lions, or sometimes even cheetahs, hunt in packs to take down larger prey. Domestic cats–”

“Reid,” Morgan interrupts, making a cutting motion with his hand to his neck.

Your eyes turn back to Spencer, who seems to retreat in on himself a bit as he gives an apologetic smile and a small nod. “Sorry,” he says, pulling his lips in a wide smile.

You set a hand on the table, shaking your head. “No, keep going. That was interesting.”

Spencer looks at you with these eyes that seem to shine. Your heart feels fonder, warmer, at the sight of him.

“We really don't have time to go through all of this,” Hotch says, his tone final.

“I mean,” you continue. Since joining the team, you've grown a certain affinity toward Spencer and his genius mind. Every time he's gone on his tangents, you've become enchanted by the words coming out of his mouth like he's put some sort of spell over you. You lift a shoulder, gesturing toward him. “If this guy is basing his MO off the hunting patterns of cats, we should…know everything we need to know about them, right?”

Hotch looks at you, his face hard and unreadable. You're unsure if he's considering your proposal or just trying to intimidate you. But then he sighs, his crossed arms loosening a little as he turns to Spencer.

“Reid?”

Spencer looks between you and Hotch, relenting hesitantly as he starts off slow. “Well…I was going to say domestic cats are solitary hunters but sociable creatures.” He picks up his normal speed once more, “They can be very affectionate, especially toward their owners and other cats within their households. They're also one of the only types of cats who play with their prey before killing them, which could be a reason this unsub tortures his victims so extensively in his murders.”

“Wait…” Prentiss says, catching all of your attentions. “You said ‘affectionate toward their owners’.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods.

She waves her hands gently, “How do cats show affection for their owners?”

Spencer shrugs, “Um, bunting, purring, some scratch, sometimes they leave offerings, like dead rodents, around the house–”

“Right there!” Prentiss exclaims. “They leave offerings.”

You sit up, “The hearts.”

Hotch’s dark brows furrow. “You're saying this unsub is taking the hearts as an offering to someone else?”

Spencer thinks over that, nodding. “It's possible.”

JJ sighs. “But that still doesn't explain why we wouldn't have identified a second unsub earlier.”

Spencer holds out a hand, pointing with his pen. “Actually, it could. You see, cats also have the tendency to mimic the people they hold affection for. We might not have noticed a second MO because the submissive unsub may be mimicking the dominant one.”

“Or learning from him,” Morgan says.

“Learning?” Hotch asks.

Morgan glances around, “Well, if we're sticking so close to this cat thing, older cats often nurture the young and teach them to hunt.” He shrugs, “We could be looking at…brothers? Older and younger?”

“Or lovers,” JJ suggests. She points to a picture, the image of a chest carefully carved open to reveal a missing heart. “If the hearts are offerings, it could be a Valentine.”

“And the bed-tucking?” you ask.

Hotch picks up the picture of one of the victims, “safely” and securely tucked into bed…put to sleep. “Well, if the hearts are offerings for a lover, this unsub is sentimental. He could feel some type of sympathy or guilt for the victim and want to ‘put them to sleep’ after the torture.” He studies the image, a flash of unease behind his eyes that you know all too well. He sets it down.

“Okay, so how do we find them?” Prentiss asks, clicking her pen before setting it down to begin a definitive course of action.

Spencer points to yet another picture. “Look at these injuries. These incisions are surgical,” he clarifies. “So the dominant is a doctor or a—a veterinarian, which can be implied through his intimate knowledge of cats’ behaviors.”

“And the submissive might work under him as a nurse or an assistant,” you continue, adding on to his clever insight. He glances over at you, smiling almost giddily at your understanding.

Hotch turns to Morgan. “Do you think that's enough to work with?”

Morgan thinks for a moment, his shrug melding into a nod as he turns back to Hotch. “To fit in with the rest of the profile,” he hums, “I'd say so.”

“Okay.” Hotch nods firmly. “We'll present the profile ASAP. Morgan, get Garcia to search for any vets in the area with any records of assault charges.” He says this all while taking long strides toward the door, his red tie bouncing slightly with his movements.

Prentiss follows him with her gaze as he exits. “You think the unsub is aggressive?”

He turns briefly. “Look at the bruising on the neck. The torture alone is an indicator of anger and frustration, but the way the victim was strangled suggests force. Much more than necessary just to crush a windpipe. He's an organized killer with a lot of rage. If he moves more along the lines of a sociopath, our best guess is he's had some kind of trouble with the law at some point in his life,” he concludes. Glancing aside, he speaks again, a little more firmly. “Morgan.”

“On it,” he says, his phone already ready to contact Garcia on speed dial.

“And Reid,” Hotch says, focusing his hard stare on the younger agent.

He stiffens, straightening his back and awaiting his response. “Yes?”

There's a pause as Hotch examines him silently. With a single nod, he says, “Good work.”

He glances at you. A nod.

You nod back.

Hotch leaves in a hurry, and your gaze immediately and instinctively flicks to Spencer. He smiles at you, turning away as though he was shyly hiding that same smile.

~

There were two unsubs: a surgical veterinarian and his nurse. You caught them just in time, just as that knife was gleaming in the golden light of the lamps swinging above the three bodies down in the basement of the submissive unsub’s house.

And now you soared 40,000 feet above the ground with another killer put away for good.

Everyone's in their own spirit, placing you across the aisle from JJ and Spencer in their own booths, a crochet set in your lap as you continue one of your projects. Emily's eyes linger on JJ, watching the crease of her brow as she studies case files.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, setting her book to the side to shift her attention. Derek darts his eyes up from his own book, lifting his brow as he does it.

JJ looks up, breathing in and lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. “I don't know about you,” she says, “but I know that if I got an actual human heart on Valentine's Day, me and my alleged partner would have some serious issues.”

Snorts and chuckles lift from multiple places among the seats, heads shaking and attentions shifting back to their own activities.

But as soon as you hear the first lilt of Spencer's voice, like clockwork, you're a fish on a hook.

“Actually,” he begins, “if we were set back thousands of years, that would not be a very unusual occurrence.” He licks his lips quickly, “You see, Valentine's Day’s origins actually go back to a festival called Lupercal, or Lupercalia. The festival was in itself a very violent and sexually charged affair that lasted roughly three days—from the 13th to the 15th—set in Rome. Its traditions were carried out in two separate locations, firstly–”

“Alright,” JJ rises to her feet, her eyes wide in annoyance as she closes her case file in a large announcement to Spencer. “I'm getting coffee. Do you want anything?”

Spencer purses his lips, that same wide, apologetic grin covering his face as he leans back in his seat and shakes his head. “Uh, no. All good here.”

She nods, turning to walk away, “Great.”

You watch JJ leave, your eyes fall back upon Spencer, who's pulling his book back into his palms to turn his focus back on the pages. His eyes flit over the words at lightning speed, absorbing the information and moving to the next.

Taking your crochet set in your hands, you stand and plop down in JJ’s old spot. Spencer's eyes darts up to you, glancing between you and his book as you set your stuff down and readjust your yarn.

Beginning again, you nod toward him. “You were saying?”

Spencer, his eyes wide and confused and his lips parted in wonder and his cheeks a little pink, stares at you. After remembering he had to respond, he sputters in an attempt to.

“Uh, it's-it's really not that…interesting,” he mumbles, trailing off at the end as he sets his book down, his fingertips pressing against the edge of the desk between the both of you.

“Well,” you look up at him, setting your elbow on the table and tucking your first underneath your chin, “I was very interested.”

His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. His lips form the word before it comes out of his mouth. “You were?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

Looking at him for a moment—just looking at him for a moment—you take in the pretty sight of his bewildered expression, fascination and confusion and excitement crossing his face in a flurry of emotion.

You move your elbow from the table and pick up your hook, nodding toward him before training your eyes on your work again as you await his words. “Firstly?” you prompt.

Scrambling to organize his thoughts, Spencer nods. As the words form in his brain, he smiles as he thrusts himself into another rant, speaking a little softer so as not to aggravate the rest of the team.

“Well, firstly, the uh— The-the first location was in a cave called Lupercus—named after the Roman fertility god that the celebration was dedicated to—and the second is a public meeting place called the Comitium.”

You tilt your head toward him, smiling a little. “Like the word ‘committee’.”

“Exactly like the word ‘committee’,” he beams.

Your attention, as hard as you tried to split it, becomes entirely caught up in Spencer as you forget about your project and focus your gaze entirely on him. You set your arms on the table separating you and watch as he speaks, your smile definitely too love-sick to be a hint anymore. He seems to lean in closer.

“So how did Lupercalia become Valentine's Day?” you wonder aloud.

“Well,” he starts, prompting a larger grin from you, “in the late 5th century A.D., Pope Gelasius I eliminated it and declared February 14th a day to celebrate the martyrdom of Saint Valentine instead—although it's highly unlikely he intended the day to commemorate love and passion as it is celebrated now. In fact, some modern biblical scholars warn Christians not to celebrate Valentine's Day at all, due to its Pagan roots and rituals.”

You hum, your eyes taking glances at the stretch of his skin over his fingers and the way they move when he speaks.

“Do you celebrate Valentine's Day?” you ask gently, speaking slowly.

His hands fall back down to his lap, and he shakes his head as he straightens his posture a bit. “Well…I don't usually have anyone to celebrate it with, so… No, not really.”

Feeling the shyness slipping into your veins, you set your hands on the table and let your fingers slowly inch toward him, staring at them inside of his eyes. You don't want to see the rejection if it lives there, in his eyes.

You speak slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “Would you like to have someone to celebrate it with?”

He swallows thickly, letting one hand lift onto the table, still close to him but building up courage to maybe meet you in the middle. “Like…” he clears his throat quietly. “Like you?”

You offer a right smile, finally flicking your eyes up to meet his and feeling giddy at the light blush on his cheeks, the nervous wideness of his gaze. “I promise no actual hearts.”

You watch him, and again…his eyes, his Adam's apple, his cheeks, his lips. “Uh…yeah,” he stutters. “Yeah, sure. I'll be your…your Valentine.”

You smile, a wide smile that splits your face in two. Spencer's own grin follows suit. Looking past you, he catches the eyes of Derek, who smirks and offers a cheesy thumbs up, proud of him for securing you as he did.

His gaze falls back to you when you begin to speak, your voice just as song-ish to him as his is to you. You're both equally as infatuated as the other. “You know,” you trail off slowly, “supposedly, Saint Valentine might be so commonly associated with our day of love because there are rumors that he used to perform secret weddings against the wishes of the authorities in the third century.”

He nods slowly, his brows furrowed slightly. “Yes, that's right…” Licking his bottom lip, he speaks again. “You already knew all that stuff about Lupercalia, didn't you?”

You smile, your face squished a bit as you raise your hands and close your thumb and forefinger close together. “Maybe a little,” you whisper. But then you shrug and just keep looking at him. “But I like listening to you talk.”

Spencer suddenly doesn't think you're real, but he isn't about to question it if you aren't. There's someone who enjoys his tangents. He isn't going to jeopardize that.

“Oh,” is all he says.

With your crocheting long forgotten, you lean forward on the table and give him every ounce of attention in your mind. With a fond smile on your lips and a twinkle in your eye, you rest your chin on your folded hands. “You should tell me about…” you pause, thinking, before you smile curls even more, “bees.”

His brows lift as he nods. “Okay, well,” he starts, “did you know the first civilization to practice widespread, organized beekeeping was the Ancient Egyptians, who began beekeeping around 2,500 BCE?”

Your brows lift in fascination. You shake your head, “No, I didn't.”

His smile grows. “Well…”

For the remainder of the flight, Spencer talks and talks and talks, his voice quiet and meant solely for you as he talks about whatever you want: bees and wine and marbles and Halloween. He keeps smiling at you, as you keep smiling at him. Somewhere along the way, he officially asks you on a date, and you both get off the jet together to get a cup of coffee.

You love the way he talks.

Criminal Minds taglist: ... Tag yourself here...

[wolven91]

Drifting - Part 4

Casper felt *strong*.

He felt like until now, there had been a fear in the back of his mind. A fear that one day his body would fail him.

But as he reached for the metal shutter door, several meters wide and taller than him, his muscles pulled without hesitation. There was no pain, no pressure as his arms engaged and tore the metal upwards with the ease of lifting a single petal that had fallen from a delicate flower.

Once the shutter was mostly up, it stopped and dented, jammed at an angle, Casper considered it for a moment and mentally shrugged, his arms not being able to make that gesture at the moment.

Ducking under and through the shutter door, the man looked out across a great landscape. Turning to peer left and right, the building he had been in was a featureless concrete slab that showed signs of scorch marks and lumps of the solid material broken and pitted as if shot with a gun.

There were no windows or doors all along the space with the exception of the series of hanger bay doors. But Casper had no interest in those, he was staring at the odd shapes and objects in the distance partially hidden by huge rolling hills and dunes.

Who could stop him now from taking a quick look? He felt *free*. What would have caused him pause before was no longer a concern.

The moment he stepped from the safety of the shutter door, he felt his foot sink into the earth, unsteadying him, making him look down. Casper watched as great mounds of dirt built up around his metal foot, as if he was far heavier than normal. He *was* heavier. Why was he..?

It came rushing back. He was piloting a mech. It was an odd sensation to remember such an important and obvious concept. How could he forget such a thing?

The man straightened and took a breath.

Breathing in the alien world's clean air it satisfied him. It was cool and rich with untainted oxygen. He could taste that there were very few particulates to damage him. He knew information this on a factual level.

The young man breathed in again; he could feel his lungs fill and his heart sing for it. He touched a hand to his chest over his heart, only for a 'clang' to draw his head down.

A metal hand, against a metal chest.

If he could frown, he would have. He settled for his optics to click shut, clean themselves, then click open again.

Why was it so hard to remember who he was inside the machine?

"Casper! You having fun there?" Demanded Zeet inside Casper's head.

[I think I broke the door. Sorry about that.]

A moment's pause.

"Ha! Break all the doors you like, it appears like you're already, ready to go for a stroll?" He sounded completely unfazed by the human's destruction; almost giddy even.

[The air out here is... I don't know how to describe it. Cleaner?]

"Your generator needs oxygen to burn, the one in your chest is only a basic model. Barely enough power to run your current rig, although I have tinkered with it, so it should suffice for what we have planned." Came a smug response from Zeet.

"I suspect the air out there is a better quality than the hanger, what with the enclosed space and multiple generators running." The head engineer explained, again, unbothered by the idea of generators running without significant air flow in an enclosed space.

[I think you're right.]

Casper took another step, for the second time finding his footing unstable. Zeet seemed to anticipate Casper's next question.

"We deliberately use loose dirt in the starting area, the idea is to force new pilots to learn how to adjust and fall without fear of being at the top of a hill or a distance away from rescue."

[I think I'm alright.]

As Casper took more steps, they became more confident. He stopped looking down and looked up, to the horizon where the strange square shapes peeked over the hills.

[What's that?] The human asked, while the mech briefly lifted one of its arms and pointed at the structures before dropping it back down to its side. Why did it move so organically?

"An assault course of sorts, although this would be far into your future as a pilot before you'd go over there. That said, I feel that it would be rather pointless to have you make such progress without letting you find your limits. Why not head over and see what you do?" Suggested the voice.

"This is ill advised. We haven't got nearly enough sensors or monitors to keep track of the relevant information." Came Wren's voice, quiet until now.

"You're telling me you don't have his readouts?"

"Not nearly as many as I'd like or choose! This was meant to be a proof of concept! Not a full-scale exercise!"

"Then you will take a page out of our books and plan for any eventuality in future. Casper! Onwards!" Zeet demanded, dismissing the doctor's comments with an almost audible flick of his hand.

Casper urged himself out into the open fields and over the green grass covered dunes. He wandered over to the distant objects without issue, merely walking up then down the rough terrain without delay. By the time he began to near the objects, the human inside the towering machine had long forgotten that he existed once more. Once he arrived at the strange shapes, the young man discovered that he found that they made up a replica of a large town, or centre of a city.

As he walking amongst the buildings, choosing the centre of a street, he noted there were no vehicles, the shop fronts weren't hollow and the buildings themselves; solid blocks without features. It was strange to be reminded of what the world was supposed to somewhat look like now, as he strolled down the main road of the faux town.

[I thought you said this was an assault course?] Casper sent back to the hanger, not seeing the drones overhead, watching his every move. He gingerly laid a hand on the top of what could have been a low corner shop as he reached a intersection of four roads.

"Well we can certainly put you through your paces if you like?" Came a flat tone. Gone was the confidence or giddy vibe to his words. Casper's optics clicked as he felt a strange sensation of danger creep over him. He looked down at one of his hands and made a fist before relaxing. Unlike his own hands, that had a constant tremble since the loss of Earth, these metal hands were perfectly still. Casper never noticed this however.

Casper had done assault courses on Earth. 'Team building' exercises. He wasn't brawny or even particularly fast. He was clever, but powerful wasn't a word he'd use in any self description.

Until today...

He *felt* powerful. He could trust his legs, trust his arms.

To the camera drones overhead, the basic mech, one that was designed to take punishment, but not excel at much else, tilted its reconnaissance unit that sat atop its shoulders as if to crack it's neck. If it were organic, of course.

[Go for it.]

"Understood." Came the immediate reply before Casper got the profound feeling that his next words were not address to the human. "Qik? You're up."

[Qik?]

"Defend yourself Casper." Came a dispassionate response.

[Wait, what? I thought this was an assault course?]

"Defeat the aggressor. No further communication will be acknowledged or sent." Zeet stated, before the human felt whatever connection that was within Casper's head, closedoff.

'Defend' himself? 'Defeat the aggressor'?!

Was he expected to fight? Casper couldn't fight! He'd never been in anymore more than a scuffle when he was twelve! He stepped away from the corner building and into the centre of the intersection, looking around himself for a threat. There were alleys and smaller roads he could duck down to break line of sight, but he need to know *where* the 'aggressor' was coming from!

Casper blinked, and in his panic, his need to find the threat, he felt his mind suddenly expand past what he could see.

It was as if a new sense had just opened up to him. Like he'd lived his life with his eyes closed and was blind, only to discover now; that he could see. This new sensation was not sight, but Casper could *feel* movement of something large and fast approaching him from the hangers to the south, where he had been only a few minutes before.

Whatever it was, it was big and fast. He could sense it was as big as he was. Nothing like the tiny dots that floated harmlessly above.

Aware of the direction of the threat, Casper ducked, dropping his head low and ensuring he himself couldn't be seen over the tops of any of the lower buildings. Quickly shuffling, the man got off the street and ducked down a side road, scooting further down, almost leaning against the building with his back. He paid no attention to the scrapes and loose concrete dust the metal of his back scratched off the structures.

{What idiot did that moron trick into this game this time?}

It was a genderless statement, devoid of emotion. It wasn't talking, like Zeet over the radio. It was text, and an image of a command line and the words filled in at the front of Casper's mind. The man could feel that he could respond.

[I'm the new guy.]

{Cute. Come out and I'll make this quick.}

[Sure, where are you?]

{Finally, a smart one, I'm coming up the main ingress.}

The young man had no interest in revealing himself. Just because the words carried no tone or emotion did not mean that he was a fool. He could sense the threat, it had crossed the distance from the hangers to the fake-town in a matter of less than a minute, whereas it took him substantially longer. Now though, he could see the pulsing 'blip' in his mind's eye. It was slowly making its way up the centre of the town, truthfully being exactly where it had told him it would be.

{I'm starting to suspect you're thinking you're clever...}

[Why's that?]

{You're hiding.}

[I'm struggling to work the controls. Only just started piloting.]

{I don't like liars 'new guy'}

As he crept around the main road, quickly tip toing across the intersecting main road, and using the alleys and smaller side roads to move around, Casper caught his first glimpse of the threat. It was a mech, but unlike his own; blocky, thick with exposed metal, pistons and wires. This one was sleek, designed for speed, but no less deadly. It reminded him of a sword. The sharp angles, the pointed feet that stabbed into the ground. It had a series of spikes along it's back like boney wings.

The whole thing screamed 'professional', all wrapped up in a red and silver paint job. It was the mech of a main character to Casper's eyes.

It didnt so much as walk or move either, the word that sprang to Casper's mind was 'stalking'. It stalked forwards, it's 'head' a pointed eagle-like structure, turning left to right, obviously scanning for him.

[What makes you think I'm a liar?]

{This is just getting insulting now. I'm the final test 'new guy'. You think they'd put you against me? Before you can even move?}

[Stranger things have happened.]

Casper got no response to his last message, but watched as the pointed head, ducked low and out of sight. He was positioned behind her now, closer to the south, nearer the hangers where she had entered, but he now lost track of her. Casper wasn't a fighter, he had no intention of getting into a brawl and made his way to the edge of the town fully intending on running back to the hangers.

The young man wasn't without some knowledge of how to throw a punch. After a physical altercation in his younger school years, his overly dramatic mother had sent him to self defence classes to stand up to the bullies. Instead of being beaten up in just a school setting, he was summarily beaten up in an official setting instead.

All he'd learnt was howto roll with the punches, literally. Casper never stayed on the ground, that was where 'bad' always ended up 'worse'.

Still crouched, sometimes using his hands against the hardtop of the fake roads to help him move, Casper finally made it to the edge of the town and learnt that it wasn't going to be that easy.

The second part of his mech broke the edge boundary of the faux town, a klaxon sounded along with one of the annoying drones swooping down with a red, flashing light directly over his head.

Casper bolted across the road and practically dived into an alleyway, into the town and away from the alarm, which remained in place. His head poked out from around a corner further into the town to see if the mysterious mech had approached to investigate.

The pointed leg that swung at Casper's head missed by what felt like mere inches, saved only because he flinched at something moving fast and fell backwards, deeper into the alleyway. The assaulting red and silver mech obliterated the plain wall with its kick in a shower of destroyed concrete and rebar; bent and demolished at the sheer force of its strike.

{You're fast.} Came a message.

Casper was up, his fists raised, elbows in. He was in his pocket and ready to protect his head.

The heel kick to his solar plexus sent him backwards, arms outstretched by the sheer force as he flew out of the other end of the alleyway and rolling head over heels into the main road again.

{Not fast enough.}

Casper backward rolled onto his feet, one of the buildings arresting his movement in a jarring thud that stuttered his vision. He didn't think, merely moved as he dived to his left down the main road. The besieged building that he'd lent against only moments ago was already buckled, but the rocket propelled mech that slammed into it with its shoulder, destroyed it in a shower of crumbling dust and materials.

The assaulting mech stomped from the cloud of debris and glared down the main road; its own optic sensors scanning for the new pilot.

The road was empty.

{You know I would have already won this right?} The red and silver mech taunted, stalking forwards, looking left and right, clearing buildings. It was sending the message over an open band, so anyone with ears on could hear it.

[I'm still standing.] Came a similar open frequency message. Qik snarled. She couldn't track or know where the new pilot was, she was working on visuals only.

{They disable my tracking system. To give you the tinest of a chance.}

She was crouched low, clearing corners, making sure the 'new guy' didn't try what she had and kick her recon unit in. Without eyes, it was an automatic win for whoever could see.

[If it's any consolation, I don't think this has a tracking system.]

Qik smirked, cocky son of a bitch. She was going to enjoy breaking him down, bit by-

[Heads up!]

A shadow flickered across the street and Qik span on one foot, swinging her leg round in a perfect roundhouse kick that would cut any mech that was in range behind her in half.

But despite her aiming high, looking to destroy an arm or even knock off the head of the opponent, her kick was too low.

From atop a building, the new mech was halfway through a jump and falling rapidly towards Qik. It was a terrible, stupid idea. Gravity was not friendly with anything as big and heavy as a mech. Only those rigs with jump packs and boosters could consider leaving the ground. But this idiot had climbed a building and had launched itself at her?!

So shocked was she, that this idiot would try such an insane and self-destructive move, Qik couldn't decide how to react. She had literally never seen this before.

That delay was enough.

On his way past, Casper grabbed a hold of the eagle-esque head and held on tight, his metal fingers denting the recon unit casing.

Gravity grabbed him and threw him against her, flipping him over her while he hurtled towards the ground in a mulit-ton mech that landed squarely on its recon unit, destroying into a million tiny, expensive pieces. Qik landed on her back, but immediately lost all visual read outs as her own unit was partislly torn from its housing.

{*What?!*} Qik demanded, unbelieving this idiot could succeed in such a stupid move! This was squidgit-shit!

"What?!" Blurted Zeet, blinking as the human had just defeated, the undefeated mercenary; Qik on his very first jaunt within a single hour of his first mech startup.

[What?] Asked Casper, also blinded and unable to move, but wholly unaware of the shitstorm he had just started.

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

[anfie-in-the-box]

Turns, twists, and paradoxes

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Notes

It's been finished for a while, just didn't feel like uploading anything. It really takes effort to get the post done, with all the links, the credits, proofreading, etc.

Also yeah, it's the second x-tra! Since @zu-is-here insists on drawing illustrations for this fic, readers get more x-tra scenes!

Enjoy!

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X-tra 2

Horror hopes he knows where to shortcut to find Murder. He doesn't want him alone after a fight; never again.

Murder isn't in his room, but that's okay. Horror has a few other places to check. He can't feel the other's emotions like Nightmare can, but he knows Murder better than anyone, so of course he'll find him.

Just let him not be too late. Murder needs him.

Horror shortcuts and shortcuts. The castle is silent and empty — it's weird not to hear a single soul, no spars on the yard, no smells of cooking — someone is, was, always awake here. The castle was alive despite overwhelming, suffocating negativity, and now it's dead. For good, once Horror and Murder leave as well. It feels strange to even consider leaving the place behind, yet it's only logical — nothing stops them anymore. They can have a try at a happy ending of their own.

Horror finds Murder in one of the balconies where he sits right on the floor, breathing deeply. He's meditating, Horror knows, so he doesn't interrupt. Instead he sits quietly in front of Murder and watches his deceivingly calm features, looking for a sign of distress. Murder is particularly vulnerable before and after gaining EXP, and while Horror couldn't really help before — Nightmare would never let them comfort each other when their negative emotions were high, only after they calmed down by themselves — he can now. So he's here. It's new, so he's not sure what exactly to do, but being around people always seemed to ground Murder, if only a little, so Horror will keep him company. They worked together for so long they grew attached despite their differences and their past. Horror was at odds with most of others, mostly because unlike them, he cared about his brother and his people and couldn't even imagine killing them. In a sense, he was lucky, never once living through what they call a Genocide timeline; but he had a hell of his own.

Nightmare only picked up toys long broken, after all. Those he could bend and twist into loyalty. Some managed to escape his grasp — Cross wasn't the first traitor, not at all, although he's the only one who joined Dream and therefore put a target much bigger than usual on his back. Nightmare does not forget, and he does not forgive.

Or at least that's how it used to be. Nightmare did bow and thank them for help, after all. And earlier, he did let them go without a word.

They're not free yet, though. Maybe will never be. But now they can make a first step. Together with Murder, Horror hopes. He doesn't want to leave his partner alone.

Murder opens his sockets, mismatched eye-lights focusing on Horror.

Neither talks until Murder twitches, "Did you want something?"

"Just make sure you're alright," Horror responds. "Well, as much as possible," he corrects.

Murder hugs his knees, curling into himself. "Papyrus didn't make an appearance, if that's what you'd like to know. I don't know if it's meditation or he just doesn't feel like it."

"That's okay," Horror assures. "There's no rush anymore."

Murder lowers his gaze. "Are we really leaving?" he asks. Something in his tone breaks Horror's heart. He's come to care so much about his partner.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I have to ask Farmer if he's okay with it. But I don't think he'll refuse, especially if we promise to help."

"We're both unstable," Murder says. "And they're peaceful. Would it work?"

Horror knows what he's really asking. What if I snap? What if you snap? Horror doesn't know how to answer that. What he knows for sure is, "We won't be alone anymore."

Murder grins. "Don't know about you, but I was never alone in the first place. Not since you…" He quiets and whispers, smile smaller but more genuine: "Thank you."

"Thank you, too," Horror grumbles. It's not easy to be so open after years of hiding, even before Nightmare came for him, but for Murder, he can do it.

They fall silent, sitting on the cool floor, looking at each other. They're both roughed up, though not injured too seriously. Some food and a bath will heal them in a moment. Maybe good sleep, too, though they won't be sleeping any time soon. Or at least Horror won't.

"Why do you think Nightmare returned?" Murder asks, uncertain and vulnerable. He looks Horror in the eye, waiting for his response nervously.

"I think," Horror says, "Nightmare needs something he left here. Probably those precious books of his. And besides, we knew it would happen sooner or later, didn't we? We were ready as we'd ever be."

Murder nods thoughtfully, reaching out. Horror lets him touch and caress his hands. Intimacy is difficult, but Murder deserves comfort, and Horror is ready to provide.

"It's so weird seeing him like this," Murder murmurs softly. He must be scared to share his thoughts so openly, and so is Horror, but they will manage for sure. There's nothing stopping them anymore. They don't have to hurt anymore. They can heal.

"It is," Horror agrees. "Whatever happened that got rid of his corruption changed him drastically, huh?"

Murder doesn't answer — there's no need to talk anymore.

So they sit together, despite the odds, against the ever-present oppressing air of an AU with hopes and dreams long gone. They're not quite ready for whatever will come next, but Horror wants to face the future by Murder's side.

。。。

Credits

Undertale © Toby Fox

Horror!Sans © horrortalecomic

Murder!Sans © ask-dusttale

Read it on ao3

Read Russian version on ficbook or fanficus

。。。

Notes

I told you Murder and Horror would show up again, but did you expect it to be so soon? Even I didn't, but it really wanted to be written, so I couldn't ignore it.

。。。

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[daaydreamy]

Can you write something like H is really scared to do anything with y/n because his past girlfriend used to be really abusive?

i just want love

summary: harry’s happy.

warnings: talks of a past abusive relationship

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

•••

“I’ve never felt like this.”

Harry and Y/N were lying in bed together, the duvet pulled over their naked bodies that were still a little tacky from sweat. Y/N had been drawing random patterns against Harry’s chest, watching it rise and fall gently while dragging the tip of her finger along his warm skin. Harry felt truly… peaceful. He felt alive, like he was finally living his life fully after staying curled up in his little shell for so long.

“What do you mean?”

This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what love was supposed to be, but Harry didn’t know that back then. He let himself believe the love he had with the woman he had been with for so long was real and true. He didn’t even understand his own feelings then yet, didn’t know what was supposed to happen and what wasn’t supposed to. It was just so clear to him then that that was it, that was what everybody was craving for, that was what everybody wanted. So young, so unaware.

She was the only thing he had known. He had only ever been with her, until he finally managed to leave that all behind. Y/N couldn’t even understand how one could be so cruel to somebody like Harry, who was so careless about everything they did. It was hard. Being so afraid that he would find himself in the same situation again, back to his younger self, and unsure of what to do.

“I don’t know… it’s just so different from what I’ve known.” Harry murmured. He felt like his own person. “And it feels right.”

a/n: i changed it up a little, but it’s still mostly the same concept!!! hope that’s okay with you :-)

🏷: @crow-i-guess, @planetflos, @harrycanyonmoonn, @bxtchboy69, @sweet-as-lilacs, @lyricalniall, @venusincleo (couldn’t tag you!), @bxbun111, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @emispleased, @goldenhrry, @cinnamongirlrry, @manifestrry, @sadqn1, @judesgfirl, @taylorsreputationsversion, @violetsandfluff, @phoebebridgersforqueen, @a-strange-familiar, @moonlightbea-33 (couldn’t tag you!), @famedrs-blog, @coochiesteak, @blahblahblah-888 (couldn’t tag you!), @milesisntdonewritingyet, @harrysgoth, @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite, @cinnamonlola, @youcan-nolonger-run, @velvetrylie, @vamprry, @ellie-loveshs, @gorlsinmultifandoms

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

"i’m not wearing any underwear. thought you’d like to know." for Victor

Destroy this boy with a flirty letter ;)

Picking up postman and squeezing him like a squeaky toy lol

Rated: Mature | Warning: none

Rarely does anyone send letters between each other, a few times a letter is sent from a hunter to a survivor but none send a letter among the same faction. Postman, Victor, apprentices you using the pen and paper to communicate with him. When you first met him, he would shy away from you, energetic as Luca, he barely could keep up. Then one day you started using your hands to make strange gestures.

“Helena taught me sign language so I can talk to you!” The joy on your face as you thought you created a bridge between him and yourself. You did but not the way you thought. Victor is mute, selectively mute, and he prefers the words on paper rather than verbal words.

The first letter you sent was mostly rambling about the day as you did not see that whole day due to matches and the occasional break to recuperate before once again going to a match.

The second letter asks him questions. Colors, food, a season, anything you could think of that is not invasive. Victor answers them while slipping in a few details you did not ask about him in order to seem more open. You matched it as you spoke about things before you came to the manor.

Then the letters between you both became a common way for you two to communicate until Victor, in his room with you, spoke softly. A small ‘thank you’ had you in tears of joy as he trusted you. Few can claim that— Literally three people outside of yourself.

And as the bond between you both grew so did feelings that started being expressed in the letters. His words are gentle, dancing around cautiously; while yours are to the point and announce your interest.

As someone from a time ahead of his, Victor felt it made things easier.

What is not easy is how you flirt so casually without shame or fear, people of your time move fast compared to his time.

The letter in his hand is held in a furious grip before closing it and facing it down; his face is red as he cannot move his eyes up to look at you across the dining table. Your foot rubs his calf, nearly making him jump.

A simple few words have his mind scrambling: I'm not wearing any underwear. Thought you should know. Love, (Name).

You smile at him, your fork playing with your food. Luca is beside you talking to Andrew and Aesop, all of them distracted while you are playing footsies under the table with Victor.

“Are you okay, V?” The nickname you gave him, “You feeling sick?” How can you see that while your foot is rubbing his crotch through his pants!? He should close his legs but… That look in your eyes is drawing him in.

“Your face looks flush,” Comments Andrew, “Maybe you should rest.” It makes sense given Victor has been in back-to-back duo matches recently. Those are a headache.

“Good idea!” Luca chimes in, “(Name), can you take him?”

“Of course.” Smiling as you get up from your seat, “You guys take care.” You place a small kiss on Lucas's cheek and Victor is standing up grateful for his uniform covering his lower half. The Postman waves goodbye before you tug him away out of the dining room.

Aesop watches the two leave before looking at Luca who is smiling too much, “You know something.”

“Maybe.” He does and completely changes the subject.

Victor pins you against his door with his hands on your shoulders, his eyes on you as his brows are knit together, “Are you really?” Low but you hear it.

“Yes, I'm not lying.”

The Postman should have known since you are wearing a skirt, yes, a skirt. You hate skirts! You complain about them especially when in a match. Yet, here you are in a long skirt in his room… Without underwear.

“Show me.” An edge to his sweet voice, his eyes and head tilting down.

You grin, “Okay.” Grabbing the middle of the skirt and lifting until you hear that gasp of surprise and cool air on your exposed lower regions. “Victor?”

He swallows loudly, “Can I?” His one hand off your shoulder, “May I?”

“Of course, this is for you.”

You might have underestimated Victor. You expected to be the one guiding and in control, dominant but gentle. No, Victor took over with his mouth on yours, a leg between your legs, and his hand that has your hands gripping the back of his uniform. His mouth never leaves yours, the sharp intake of air only when you both are dizzy, and you are the one making the most noise.

There are sweet whispers between kisses, those three words that have you begging him to touch you more.

Both of you barely get to the bed, fumbling a bit to strip, tripping and falling on one another but luckily on the bed.

[avocado-writing]

[ UNEXPECTED ]  one muse stays the night to keep an eye on the other after something traumatic and they end up having comfort sex. For Tangerine please <33

gentle cw for mentions of kidnapping // smut

Your hand is shaking as you turn on the tap. The kitchen sink sputters for a moment as it always does, before filling your empty glass up with water - which you lift to your lips and drink it down in one. Wiping your mouth on the back of your sleeve you end up staring out of the window, just to try and get your mind off of things. 

It doesn’t work. It’s pitch black outside, so rather than being able to see into your back garden you catch a glimpse of your own reflection. You look exhausted. Baggy-eyed and greasy-skinned, hair not properly taken care of for days. You run your hand over your neck and wince. At least the bruising has mostly disappeared. The men who pulled you into their van less than a fortnight ago when you were on your way home from the shops hadn’t been… careful. 

They grabbed you because they thought they could use you for leverage against Tangerine. More fool them - they were too dense to expect your other half and his brother to come and spring you free. 

A shudder goes through your whole body. It hadn’t been a pleasant couple of days in that shitty semi-detached basement. You truly had come to terms with the fact you might die. That Tangerine might not get to you in time. 

As if summoned by thinking about him, you catch sight of Tangerine in the window as he walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t wear a shirt to bed - you’re sure it’s because he likes showing off - and his pyjama bottoms are slung low on his hips. He shuffles over and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close and safe to his body. 

“Wondered where you’d gone,” he mutters into your ear. 

“Just to get a drink,” you reply, but when you do you notice that you’re hiccuping as you speak. Fuck. You must have started crying without realising it. How absolutely pathetic. 

“Shh, shh. It’s alright love, eh?” Tangerine whispers, arms tightening as he notices how upset you are, “I’m here. I’m never going to let anyone ever fucking hurt you again.”

You know he’ll do his best. But he’s just one man. One man with a lot of enemies. Another stupid little sob forces its way out of you. 

“What can I do?” he asks, and you know him well enough to hear how desperate he is; how he’d do anything to make you happy. But there’s only one thing you need right now, and it’s intimacy. The reminder that he’s there. 

“Fuck, just… be inside me, Tan.”

He pauses for a moment.  

“You sure?”

You nod. 

“I need to forget. Make me forget.”

He slowly begins to kiss down your neck, lips rough and chapped against your sensitive skin. Your breath hitches in your throat as he reaches around your body to cup your breasts over your night shirt. In the darkness of the window’s reflection, you watch the man who loves you skim his hand down your stomach and reach under your waistband. 

You gasp as his fingers brush against your cunt. Your body goes limp as you let the tension seep out of it. His touch draws you out of the shadows of your mind and into the pleasure he’s thrumming through your body. 

He presses down on your clit, sending shivers through your spine. It feels strange when he touches you while not wearing his rings; but intimate and lovely nonetheless. 

“Tan,” you whisper when he dips inside. He strokes your soft inner walls a couple of times before gently pressing a hand to your shoulder blade, bending you over the sink. He slides your pyjama bottoms down your legs and you listen to the rustle of fabric as he pulls himself free. 

The kitchen is silent except for the warm slap of skin on skin as he sinks inside of you. Your breath catches a little while you adjust to his size, but you practically feel made for him at this point. A long, shaky exhale leaves you as he catches his breath and begins to fuck you in earnest, hard thrusts of his hips filling you up over and over. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the revealed expanse of your shoulder. 

“Tan…”

“I’ve got you. Nobody ever touches you again,” he growls, hands sinking into your hips. 

You catch the sincerity on his face in the reflection, and you believe it. 

[symphonic-scream]

Okay hear me out

Persona 5 Stardew Valley au

So we've got the animal seller, Haru, who's parents divorced when she was young. She spent her teen years in the city with her father, but once an adult she decided to live with her mom, and has fallen in love with country life

Makoto has lived in town her whole life. Her older sister left to have a fancy city job, and thinks Makoto is wasting her talents and smarts by staying to keep up the family tradition. Makoto knows someone has to protect the town, and gladly draws her sword to do so. She trains by cutting down trees for the local artist and for town projects

Ryuji is a former golden child. He was going to be a star athlete, but an accident took it from him. He's not really doing anything at the moment, just working on loving life again. His Ma is the bus driver

Shiho moved to town after a similar incident to Ryuji, only she puts all she is into work, to have a place so when they're adults, her girlfriend can leave her family behind so they can be together. She only recently took over the carpentry business from her mentor, and her girlfriend Ann helped expand the business to include furniture and house decor, with design input

The pub in town in Leblanc. While the owner, Sojiro, specializes in coffee, he'll accept local foods to make dishes by request of the townspeople. His daughter Futaba is a recovering shut in, and his wife Wakaba runs the town clinic, with her med student Tae

Yusuke appeared one day, having sold all he had to find a font of inspiration. He fell for the valley, and at first lived in a tent near the mountain. Makoto, who nearly mistook him for a monster, invited him to stay on her family's property. He mostly paints, but does sculptures for order from the nearby city to pay his share of living costs

The town blacksmith is named Munehisa Iwai. He's the broody type, but cares for his son a whole lot. He's just, not good at showing it. He often requests things his kid would like

The town store used to belong to an older man, but he passed it on to a wayward boy and his younger brother, both whom he met by chance. The boys, then in foster care, lived with him until he became too old and ill go run the store. Akira and young Morgana still keep the Velvet Room running, even if old man Igor is living in Hospice

And, the mayor, Lavenza. She's very new to the position, which used to be Igor's. She's hoping to improve the town a lot, and is caring for her younger twin sisters

A strange man lives on the beach, with a strange talent for fishing. Goro doesn't talk about who he was before he moved there. It's behind him.

The library is run by Hifumi, who wants to reopen the museum portion after her parents sold the artifacts to keep it from closing. Hifumi thinks a museum would inspire tourists to donate,

And, finally, our farmer.

Sumire feels lost. Her sister died, her parents can't speak to her without crying, and she feels, trapped, so she impulsively quits her profession. She finds a letter from her grandfather, with the deed to a farm. Needing a reset, she leaves the city and life behind to live in a small town in the valley, where no one knows her, or her sister.

To clear things up, Makoto and Ryuji both grew up in town, have been friends the whole time. Futaba has been in town since she was 6, Hifumi was born there, and Akira and Morgana have been there since they were 14 and 6, now about 21 and 13. Shiho and Ann were in Ryuji's class at school, since they had to travel to a nearby city for school. Haru moved there when she was 18, Yusuke and Goro appeared around 19-20.

Anyways. Talk to me about this

(I'm open to any ships for it pretty much, but I will say I have Okujima in it.)

[xxbrightshadowxx]

How the hell did I learn about the 9th Amulet book through two brothers arguing in the backseat behind on a two hour plane trip from Arizona? I thought they were joking at first till I searched it up and it’s real and it’s coming out very soon. So after I learned that I decided to re-read the Amulet series up till 8 and decided to tell whoever is willing to read this my thoughts!

Clarification beforehand though, I do enjoy Amulet. It was one of my favorite pieces of media for a few years and even inspired me to create my own story similar to it. While I may come off a bit hatful and aggressive, I do like this series but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my fair share of problems with it

Books 1

So I’m going off the same rating scale that I use for movies so go check out my Trolls Band Together review to know what each rating means and just replace movie/film to with book. Anyways I give this book, 6/10. I enjoyed this book. This was the first graphic novels series I read and I was excited to know what happened next. I also loved how the robots and the robot house looked. I don’t have any problems with the first book. Primarily because it’s way too early to have any problems.

The reason why I rate it low though, is because while I enjoy it, it’s not my favorite. It didn’t do much to really impress me nor draw my attention. It did just enough to make me wanna see what happens next.

Book 2

With the second book I give it a 6.8/10 right between 6.5 and 7. Why? Well for starters I enjoyed the Elf plot line. To me, when I first read the series was much more interesting then the main one for some reason. This is the book where we meet Leon. Leon, for the most part was an interesting character. Not to mention we get some world building through him about the elf king and being a stone keeper.

Navin’s plotline, while useful to some degree, wasn’t my favorite. Of course it’s important but I was less invested than I should’ve. That might just have been a personal problem I have with Navin later in the series but we’ll get to that later.

My only problem with this is Luger. Now, Luger is a good villain and I found him intimidating when I first read the second book. I think my problem really stems from the fact that this is the only book where Luger gets to be a villain. This should be a book 3 problem but book 2 is where he is defeated.

Book 3

Book 3 was my favorite when I was younger and it still holds the place as one of my favorite amulet books in the series to this day. I give it a good 7.5/10. This book does a lot of things right in my opinion. I like the action sequences and the new information about Trellis backstory proving again that he is the most interesting character. I also found Rico and Enzo funny believe it or not. They are a fun addition to the party.

However, my problem was the robots. Miskit and Cogsly were just there most of the time. They didn’t really guide Emily like they were set up to be. I didn’t feel anything when they got captured. Which is not something you want your readers to feel when something bad happens. I also found Luger’s personality change strange. I expected him to be a bit more hostile and condescending after being defeated. Granted, you could argue it was the stone but still, it was odd.

Book 4

I have mixed feelings about this book. This is where certain problems that I have with Kazu start to show. First of all, I give this one a 7.5/10 as well. I was never sure if I should trust Max until the very end. I never understood Max. He was suspicious and I thought he had bad intentions some times and other times I thought for a moment maybe he did have good intentions for Emily.

I also like Alyson mostly because she felt much more real. She was fun and I liked her character. Leon, Rico, and Enzo have their moment, the prison break which I enjoyed reading. I also like the Elf racism while Trellis and Luger are at the prison. Granted, it’s brief but it’s to be expected and it does give some insight on what other people think about Elves. I also liked Vigo. I was glad to see another stone keeper on the good and he also came with more world building which I’m always glad to see.

However, Miskit and Cloglsy were both weak parts and I was confused about how everyone was dead and stone and Max’s agenda for a while. I had to re-read certain parts to fully grasp what was happening.

Book 5

Book 5 was a 7/10. I don’t have many thoughts. For one I am mad they split up the original party. Karen, Miskit, Cloglsy, and Leon felt like they were meant for more before they got shoved in the brook closet. Sure, Cloglsy is here with Navin but it isn’t much. I do enjoy seeing Navin and Alyson hanging out, that’s fun. Max’s backstory is sad..he tried helping his friend and her family from prison. Only for it to backfire horribly in his face and be thrown into prison for trying to be a good person. His hatred and need to revenge for his dead friend is such an interesting concept for a villain and he poses such a genuine threat and I love it.

Then there is the about the voice. I am not gonna lie, not a big fan of it. The reveal that the voice is the elf king felt odd and sort of out of place. I don’t know. I have mixed feelings about it.

Book 6

Max. Max, max, max. All I got to say is f-ck you, Kazu Kibuishi for screwing over such an interesting character. This book gets a 5.1/10. The utter and total whiplash I got when Max wanted to work with Trellis, Emily, and Vigo gave me migraines. There was no build up and it was so random. And his death, are the FUCKING kidding me. This just felt like a lazy way to write out a character. Max knew that Layra wouldn’t approve of his actions and that’s why he asked for forgiveness. Then he tried to justify with her and it’s such horse crap! No to mention, it was so fricking anticlimactic and just lazy!

I also wasn’t a big fan of Navin’s side plot. Also something reoccurring is that Emily is just there. She doesn’t push the narrative because she has no goals. She just does heroic stuff because she feels she has to. Not because she wants to. It makes her feel flat. Which is disappointing since she had potential to be great.

The reason why I don’t put this as a three is because the scene where they save the elves and Trellis announces himself to be the real king, is cool. Not to mention I liked Riva. She’s a character that had great potential. However this is not enough to save this book.

Book 7

Oh, firelight. You are the embarrassing sibling in the Amulet series. I give you 3/10. First off, one good thing I’ll say is I am glad we are continuing the theme of lost. Even if it feels weird, pacing wise. That’s it. That’s the only thing I really enjoy about this book.

First off I didn’t like Pil, Alyson, and Navin’s storyline. It was just there and it took up too much page time. Second, Gabilan. Oh, Gabilan. He was also just there. We get his backstory, he does some stuff and then he dies. He’s a plot device and while if you really think about it, everyone is a plot device, Kazu didn’t try to hide the fact that he is a plot device. Also the ending. TRELLIS. YOU ARE TELLING YOU DID EVERYTHING TO TRY AND STOP HER FROM BECOMING A BIRD! WHAT THE F—

Book 8

Where do I begin. First off, this book was a 0/10.

And now my problems. First off the si fi outer space plot like win Navin was so boring. Oh my god. I felt nothing. But that. That part was least of my concerns. My concerns was everything else. First of all, Trellis and Vigo got nerfed so easily that it annoys me. They stop the army and that’s fine, though they did it without trying. And that’s it for them. In the entire book. I have several issues with them shoving Riva, Trellis, and Vigo in the closet.

But my biggest issue is Emily and the void. First of all how the hell did she get out so easily. Was this even an issue if she just left without any problems any help. WHY DID SHE NEED NO HELP! If it was that easy to leave the void, why did it take people years to get out. What the fuck. Also what the fuck is with the future Emily bullshit?! TIME PARADOX ARE A THING KAZU. THERE IS A REASON NOT MANY PEOPLE DESL WITH TIME TRAVEL. Also who the hell is Moze’s dad?! Why does he have to her son?! Kazu, why?! You missed the mark by a landslide.

Also the elf king. WHAT. THE. FUCK. IT WAS SO FRICKING EASY TO DEFEAT HIM. JUST HAD TO TAKE OFF HIS DAMN MASK. TELL ME THIS. IF THE ELF KING WAS THAT EASY TO DEFEAT, WAS HE EVER A REAL THREAT IN THE FIRST PLACE?! NO! WE HAVE BEEN BUILDING UP TO THE ELF KING AS THR BIG BOSS SINCE BOOK 2 AND WE DEFEAT HIM IN THE MOST ANTICLIMACTIC WAS POSSIBLE ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! NOW THE MAIN THREAT IS A BUNCH OF SHADOWS?! WHY?! WHY! AND IF YOU TELL ME THAT THAT ISNT WHAT BOOK 9 IS ABOUT IT STATES IN THE AMZON DESCRIPTION: “Emily finally understands the stone's power and what she must do to defend Alledia from the shadows.”

ALSO THE FACT THAT EMILY IS ALIVE SEEMS LIKE A NO BIG DEAL TO VIGO AND TRELLIS ALSO THEY JUDT LER HER LEAVE TO GO KILL A BUNCH OF SHADOWS ALONE?! ALSO OLD EMILY WAS THERE TO GIVE EMILY HER STAFF AT THE END. AGAIN, TIME PARADOXS ARE A THING KAZU.

Overall thoughts:

It’s obvious that Kazu Kibuishi wrote this story without a proper outline. What does that mean? It means Kazu didn’t know how he was going to end the story or the middle. He knew the beginning and instead of trying to figure out and plan the entire story, he wrote what he thought of right on the spot. When waverider comes out I will buy it and read it. I will also most likely rate it and write down my thoughts. Till next time though, if you actually took the time read this post and indulge in my thought process and ideas.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Golden hour

Final chapter

a/n welcome to the final chapter! I'm extremely sorry for the wait but I hope the ones who still enjoy this will have fun reading regardless. Thank you for joining me on this journey. 🤍

———————————————————————

Azriel was sitting in his office. The night was in full bloom as he flipped through yet another stack of papers. He never complained about it. Work has always been something he has enjoyed. A way to feel useful and needed. A way for him to feel himself, even if what Azriel did, didn't paint him as the best of males. A strange noise, coming from the other side of the door, made him lift his head, and when the sound echoed through the room again with a frown on his face, Azriel stood up.

His foot landed on the floor with a splash, and the shadow singer dropped his gaze. His guts twisted as the ever-so-familiar golden substance came into his sight. Then panic set in, and the room seemed to close in on itself. As he frantically crossed the room, following the golden track, his brain went numb. And there you were. Spread out on the floor. Covered in open bites. Drained and lifeless. No. No. No. Azriel wasn't sure if he said those words out loud as he fell to his knees in front of you. Your face was twisted in pain, and it took a lot of self-control to not vomit at the sight of it. Azriel tried to lift you, but the moment he touched you, he heard your bones crushing beneath his fingers, and then your screams filled his ears. Screams so loud and was filled with so much pain that he thought someone was skinning him alive.

Azriel shot up, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down his body. Ever since the events in Autumn, his nightmares had shifted. He no longer dreamed of his father's abuse or his hands being burned. No, he kept seeing you die now. Over and over in more than one way. If not from someone else's hand, then from his own. If he thought that his previous nightmare was rough, well, he sure had the Mother laughing at him now.

To the feeling of your hands running down his back, Azriel flinched. But the kisses you left on his shoulder slowly brought him back to reality, and he let the warmth of your shin slowly wash the crippling fear away. The first time it happened, you offered to take the dreams from him, but Azriel knew what that would mean for you, and he wasn't going to let you repeatedly see yourself dying over and over again.

"I'm fine," the shadow singer muttered, bringing your hand up to his lips before kissing it softly a couple of times. You let out a sigh. Fighting with him was pointless. Same as trying to make him talk about it. You knew what he dreamed of, but... Moving closer to your lover, you nestled yourself on his lap and said, "One night, please, let me give you one night of sleep." The last week or so had been insanely hectic. From you being kept under close watch to Rhys going out of his way to keep you under so many shields, at times it was hard for you to even feel Azriel. Then Madja didn't let you move for a good portion of that time. Your body was weak. You were weak. So weak that shifting out of your full fairy form wasn't an option. Yet that you cared about the least. Plus, it was quite interesting to watch Azriel inspect your wings. He'd spent more than one evening drawing shapes in the vibrant patterns on your wings. He had called them a masterpiece. But your heart was mostly heavy with all the people you had left behind in the Autumn. Their lives now depended on you and you alone. You'd been nothing more than a coward. You wanted to help solve it all, but Rhys had politely asked you to step aside while he handled everything. And with the problems, you had already brought them you didn't fight his choice.

"You're weak, love. This can cause more...", "Azriel, you babying me won't help me, please." You knew that his silence as you two laid down wasn't him agreeing to your proposal, but you waited till the spymaster drifted off anyways, before you slivered into his unconsciousness. When Azriel stirred late the next morning, he found you sitting with your legs up to your chin next to him as you started at the wall. In the same way, he had shivered at your touch in the night, his warm embrace sent you trembling as well. You smiled as you softly caressed his cheek, "Morning, handsome," but Azriel didn't return your smile, "You did it, didn't you?" Lying was pointless; even if you pretended that you only shifted the dream, it wouldn't help the case, so you nodded your head and said, "And I'll do it again if I have to."

Azriel pulled you closer to him by your hand. Even if the spymaster rarely left your side now, you two have hardly been spending quality time together. It felt wrong for you to feel sad about that, considering everything that was going on, but you couldn't help it. You tilted your head up so you could look up at him. Carefully nuzzling into his embrace. "You're thinking loudly," Azriel snickered, but you couldn't bring yourself to giggle alongside him, "Y/N?". Damn all of the shields you tried to put on yourself. With a sigh, you moved away from the shadow singer. His confused eyes watching you.

"Rhys sent a letter", Azriel's expression didn't change as if he couldn't pinpoint why that would be a bad thing, "He wants to talk to me alone", "Reason being?", you just shrugged your shoulders. When you had made somewhat of a recovery, Rhys had you questioned about working for Beron. It didn't seem like he had anything against you. But then again, you understood why he would be suspicious of you. His name was on the list of people Beron wanted you to watch. "Well, you're not going alone", "Azriel...", you whined. The shadows singer sat up quietly, "You and I", he gestured at the two of you, "We handle and do everything together now," he said. "Will you be joining me in the bathroom?", you cocked your head to the side and grinned. Azriel only rolled his eyes at you, "Whatever he wants, he can tell us both."

To say that you were worried would have been an understatement. And the fact that Rhysand's face was unreadable also didn't help the case. But you were thankful that at least he did not comment when Azriel stepped into the room after you. "There will be a trial. Most of the high lords agreed that camps and what was done to Y/N had violated quite a handful of rules", even the mention of it made a shiver run down your back, and Azriel instantly took a hold of your hand. "Beron is most likely to be executed, but Eris. Eris and Lucien they need to serve in Autumn", that part didn't surprise you. Eris always knew that no matter what dirty things of his father that he participated in, he would always have immunity. He wasn't afraid to show it off. Hence his behavior that involved you.

"That is bullshit", Azriel murmured through gritted teeth, "They will be punished but there's no final decision as to how". Rhys was calm, yet there was something beneath the surface. You felt another tingle run through you as you spoke, "That's not it; I can feel it." You instantly could tell that this was the part that the high lord wanted you two to discuss alone. This was the reason why no one, especially Azriel, wasn't supposed to be here. "The lords want to use your power to break down whatever Beron had going on and track down his allies," Rhys said after taking a deep breath.

Azriel tensed instantly at the sound of that, his eyes darkening as he gaped at Rhys, "Use? Use? You're not going to use my mate." You pulled at his arm, making sure that he wouldn't jump at Rhys. "This is mostly because Y/N had been tracking them", "She didn't do it for fun", the shadow singer barked, narrowing his eyes as he leaned forward. "I know, Az," but the spymaster only shook his head and asked, "Do you? Because you're backing them, Rhys." You knew very well that the tension was going to rise once Beron's plan to take down all the high lords using their biggest fears against them came out. All in all, you knew you could be sentenced to death yourself. But you've been twisting the truth, telling Beron stuff that wouldn't be enough to break down courts. That had to mean something, right?

"No, the answer is no, Rhys, and if anyone has an issue with that, send them my way," Azriel roared, already pushing you behind him. "Az," you said in a worried way. Hands slowly ran up and down his back, hoping to calm him down. But they were all up in one another's faces, snarling at each other. "You don't give me orders, shadow singer," and you could tell that Azriel was going to launch forward, so you pushed yourself in front of him. Attempting to put as much distance between the two brothers as possible. Step in before both of them say things they regret.

"I would agree, but I can get stuck in Beron's mind; he knows how to trap me," you said quietly. Eyes glossing up as you thought about all the times he had toyed with you to his delight. Azriel's arms pulled you closer to him at the sound of that. "No, Rhys, please," the spymaster muttered. Now it wasn't anger; it was panic that flooded his eyes. Shear panic on having to go through the fright of losing you. He didn't want to step away. He didn't want to put you in harm's way. You've been through enough. Been used enough. Used and abused. Rhys knew this. Knew this very well himself. His shoulders sank, "I'm on your side. I'll do all I can so that she wouldn't have to be a part of any of this". 

The high lord reached for your hand, giving it a light squeeze, "Maybe you'll share your memories with me, and I'll just show it to them as proof." You nodded your head slowly. Even if you didn't want to relive it all, you didn't want them to be able to get out of this with no consequences. After some time, Feyre emerged to steal you away for a final cup of tea before you two went back to your tiny home. A decision you both made a couple of days ago. You needed a bit of privacy and a chance to process everything together.

Before Azriel stood up to leave as well, Rhys caught his hand and said, "We will protect her, I promise." Azriel nodded his head before embracing his brother in a tight hug. The realization of how long it's been since they shared a moment like that hit him, hard. "She came to me that night because I was having a nightmare," Azriel said, his voice barely audible as the males separated. "I've been having them for a long time but... I was ashamed and said nothing", Rhys's eyes filled with sympathy, "Azriel, you should have...", "I know but it made me feel weak". 

Silence fell over the room for a minute, and then Rhys draped his hand over his brother's shoulders, "She changed your life, and I'm kind of glad that you two went against my plan to separate you for the time being." Azriel let out a low chuckle. "But know that we would never think you're weak. You have a worrier's heart," pressing his hand to Azriel's chest, Rhys clapped his hand on the leather a couple of times. "We support each other as a family and we fight as a family, brother", Azriel nodded his head at his high lord's words. Now, it was only Cassian that he had to tell all of this to. And then the weight would be off his shoulders.

The flight back to your house felt almost nostalgic, and as you both landed in front of the now infamous door, you couldn't contain a smile. It looked just like you had left it as if nothing had happened in the past couple of months. "After you, my lady," Azriel chirped as he unlocked the door, but your eyes drifted to your garden, which in its untended state had almost all died down. Azriel's eyes followed, "Hey, we'll regrow everything", "I know it's just sad," you said as you stepped through the door and into the house.

"We can go to the market to get you some seeds, and I bet we need things to make food for tonight," you hummed as you dusted off the table before placing your cloak on it. Eyes fell on the blanket bed that was still on the floor in the middle of the living room. "Would you go out into the city with me?",  "What kind of question is that?" Azriel looked at you all confused, "Well, you don't strike me as a male who would just walk hand in hand with me." Azriel rolled his eyes before coming closer to you, kissing the side of your head before he spun you around. "We could dance through the streets if you want," he said, and you let out a giggle as he shimmied his shoulders a couple of times. You two just stayed in each other's embrace for some time in complete silence. Silence until your stomach grumbled with hunger.

"Maybe you go out to buy some stuff and I and sprout can start on making food", Azriel's eyes wrinkled again, "Who's sprout?", had he missed some creature you grew here? Or was it a person? But you just pointed a finger behind him, making the spymaster turn that way. Not far from you two flouted the shadow that had been by your side at all times.

"You named my shadow?", you only nodded your head, and the little ball of darkness instantly edged closer to you. "Oh, no, no one else is getting named," Azriel shook his head as more of his shadows rushed to you. But the balls of darkness didn't seem to listen as you lifted your hands so they could dance all over you. "It's okay, we won't tell him," you whispered to them, knowing full well that Azriel could hear you. The truth was that Azriel loved it. Loved that something so deadly that was supposed to be scary was so loved by you. As if his most damaged side was being loved by you the most, "I'll pretend I didn't hear it." You giggled, moving into the kitchen to start working on the shopping list.

Humming under your breath, you mixed the stew that was cooking in one of the pots. Azriel had come back not long after you two separated, giving you just enough time to clean up the house and get the fire started. With him now sorting through your books, you were left to finish making dinner. It felt homely and safe. For the first time in a while, you both had no worries on your shoulders. Even if it was for just one evening. It seemed like the biggest gift.

"It smells so good that I need to control myself to not drool all over," Azriel said. His warm hands sneaked over your middle as he inched closer, careful not to hurt your wings. You leaned into his chest, closing your eyes as his warmth seeped through your much cooler skin. It was a delight to soak in his warmth. Noticing that Azriel ran his hands up and down your arms "Get the table ready; we'll be able to eat soon." With one last kiss to the top of your head, Azriel moved to pull out two bowls and some plates for the roasted rosemary-honey potatoes that - he was convinced without even trying - were going to be delightful. Noticing a couple of candles on the other side of the room, the spymaster was quick enough to place them in the middle of the table before lighting them.

You emerged from the kitchen carrying a still-sizzling tray. "Do I have to warn you not to touch them yet?" you teased the male as you turned to him. Azriel was already licking his lips. But he only shook his head, moving to walk with you back into the kitchen so he could pour himself some stew, but you snatched the bowl out of his hands. Azriel frowned slightly.

"Go sit down", your eyes met him for a moment, and you could tell without needing to place your hand on his chest that Azriel's heart had started beating rapidly, "Love..?", but you just smiled at him before pushing him out through the door. Those couple of minutes of waiting for you to come out with the food had been rather nerve wreaking. So many thoughts were running through his mind. Yet Azriel tried to hold himself together. Sprout flew through the doors first, nuzzling against Azriel's cheek before disappearing into nothingness.

And then you came out the door. You had the biggest smile on your face, carrying a much larger bowl than Azriel had brought out for you two to eat from. "If I'm not mistaken, I need to make and offer for your food, right?" Azriel's eyes went big. You two had decided to wait before accepting the bond. He wanted you to be sure. To be well and recovered. To give you enough time to heal. It didn't mean that Azriel wasn't craving to finally have it fully snap into place. But maybe this wasn't at all what he thought it was. "What are you doing?" he mumbled, his eyes searching yours as you placed the bowl in front of him.

 "I made you my favorite stew with lots of love, and I want us to finally accept the mating bond." Azriel's thoughts were all over the place as he kept on looking at you and the food in front of him. "I want you, Azriel; it's been you for so long. I want to finally make my heart your home", the spymaster reached for your hand pulling you closer so you could sit on his lap. Embracing you in his arms, "This feels like a dream, I'm so scared I'm going to wake up, and you'll be gone", he murmured, pressing himself closer to you. Those thoughts hunt him often, at times the feelings that flouted through him, simply felt too good to be true. Like in a blink of an eye, you'll disappear. Vanish, leaving only a memory.

"But I am here, and I'm yours", you said softly, combining your fingers through his, "Now, would you please take a bite, my mate?" Smiling from ear to ear, you watched as Azriel picked up a spoon with slightly trembling fingers. Right before he took the first bite, he turned to you, pressing his lips to yours in a rather messy kiss. It felt as if all of the world's sounds felt brighter. Like every sound and smell was sharper. The golden thread between you started to glow, and like a crashing wave on the shore, the feeling of Azriel's presence flourished inside you. Tears picked up the corners of your eyes as you pressed yourself closer to your lover's chest. It felt so overwhelming to feel him. Fully feel him. Azriel had to close his eyes for a moment, but even that didn't help as the tears rolled down his cheeks. You were here in his arms. So near, and only his to care for and love.

Looking down at you, he couldn't contain a giggle: "You're glowing again," and indeed you were sparkling like the brightest star during the Starfall. "Can you blame me? I'm officially mated to the most handsome male in the whole court," Azriel let out a deep belly laugh before leaning closer to you, "I love you so much. I'll love you till the end of time. Through all the golden hours and cloudy skies," Azriel muttered into the crown of your head, leaving kisses in between his words. Smiling at him, you gently wiped away the tears from his cheeks before leaning in to kiss him yet again. As mates now. As two hearts who, from now on, only beat for one another.

———————————————————————

All acotar writing: @brekkershadowsinger @cityofidek @baebeepeach @lucyysthings @hideing @urfavbrunettebish @historygeekqueen @marina468

This series: @moonfawnx @piceous21 @are-y0u-sirius @fall-myriad @hanasakr @j-brielmalfoy @harrylines

[thecrimsonribbon]

My SVE OC lores and stuffs

Ignore my typo and grammar mistakes 🤧

Let’s talk about my sve comic first. I was going to draw series based on Stardew Valley Expanded but since I don’t have much information about Castle Village, I temporarily cancelled it until 2.0 is released.

The SVE comic took place mostly in Stardew Valley, and will be told through Isaac’s POV. (Ridgeside Village is also mentioned)

Summary: Isaac happened met the Pelican Town’s florist, Myra, who looked exactly like his deceased lover, Elaine. After that fateful encounter, strange things started to happen in both the town and Castle Village, and Isaac find himself in a mission where he has to discover the mystery behind Myra’s pressence.

Character’s backstory (mostly headcanon and has nothing to do with the canon lore in the game/mod):

- Isaac:

Isaac is a skilled monster hunter at Castle Village, he is skilled in combat and swordsmanship, therefore he had earn the position as a monster hunter in Castle Village, this is where he also met his lover, Elaine.

Isaac had longed for a family with Elaine and planned to marry in the future. Isaac proposed to Elaine in Crimson Badlands, seconds after she took her last breath. Isaac still kept some of Elaine’s keepsakes such as the red ribbon she always used to tied up her hair, and her cloak. He has been mourning for her for 6 years, he shows no interest in finding somebody else to love.

- Lance:

This man kept everything about him a mystery. All we know that he was born from a noble family and he knows magic. Lance’s handsome face always has the smug look on it as if he knows something, a secret perhaps? He will never tells you.

- Elaine:

Elaine was born in Pelican Town with her grandparents, while her parent lived and worked at Suzu city. Elaine soon became a member at the Adventure Guild after she finds joy in keeping the valley safe from monsters.

She then moved to to Castle Village at the age of 23, and met the monster hunter Isaac. Elaine and Isaac soon got closer and started dating, they had been dreaming of having their own house in Ginger Island to start a new life as a farmer, but their dream was shattered not long after.

Elaine passed away at the age of 25, after sacrificed herself to kill Apophis completely, leaving Isaac to mourn for her passing for 6 years. Isaac has build her a headstone and scattered her ashes around Ginger Island.

- Myra:

Myrams origin is still a mystery, nobody knows where she came from, who’s her family and where is her old home. She came to Pelican Town on a stormy night and then begin her life there ever since, even doctor Harvey is unsure who is the mysterious man that brought her to his clinic that night.

Myra is seen as a very friendly, kind and generous young lady, it is impossible for her to make any enemies. Although the villagers feel uneasy whenever they visit her farm, as it’s always filled with void animals and creepy things, they always talk highly of Myra.

Lore heavy stuffs:

Apophis can’t die, when Elaine finally put an end to the monster, its soul morphed with Elaine after she passed away. Therefore, Elaine’s soul was trapped in Crimson Badlands. The Minister of Magic noticed, if Elaine soul fell into the hand of those who have ill intentions, Apophis will be reborn again.

Lance at the time happened to did research on resurrection spell, he then started to experiment on Elaine’s corrupted soul and successfully resurrected her with the help of the witches, wizards and the Ridgeside Mountain deity, Raeriyala.

However, Elaine’s memory was completely wiped out and Apophis’ soul still imprinted on her (explain why Elaine / Myra loves void stuffs) so she was given a new name and was brought back to Pelican Town, under Magnus’ watch in case something bad happened. (They kept this a secret from Isaac because Isaac would try to throw hands with them as he believedthey were using Elaine as a lab rat.)

In my sve comic, there’s a cult where people worship Apophis as their god and would do anything to bring back Apophis. If they had their hands on Elaine and her corrupted soul, she could be a vessel for Apophis’ reborn and cause chaos again.

Secrets and other stuffs:

In this sve universe, the color red holds an important part of the story as it’s held a lot of meaning and metaphors.

- red is the color of love and blood.

- it’s Elaine’s/Myra’s favorite color on clothes and flowers (Roses)

- red is the color of the butterfly that often flies around Isaac’s home the first 2 weeks.

- red is the color of the leaves, the Fall season where Elaine and Isaac met (Isaac met Myra during Fall too)

- red is the color of Apophis’ eyes.

Myra’s current appearance is what Elaine wanted herself to look like if she’s not a Monster Hunter.

Elaine is pregnant with Isaac’s son but neither did she or Isaac knows about it.

Elaine’s bloodline has connection with both Pelican Town and Ridgeside Village, which explains why Raeriyala helped Lance with his resurrection experiment.

[thirstbxtch]

Cash Only

Part II Here

You’re short on cash so you decide to offer Eddie something else instead.

Pairing: Eddie/Reader. No Y/N. Reader is 18+.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ Only.

References to drug use, Blow jobs, Fingering.

Friday night and there's a knock at the trailer door. Not surprising for the line of business he's in, but still he didn't have any scheduled appointments for this evening.

Eddie opens the door to find you, standing on the steps, one hand on the trailer.

"Hey, you have any Speed?" You ask looking up at him.

"Yeah, sure, come on in," Eddie says, motioning you in.

You were one of his regulars. Usually you bought Mary Jane, but sometimes when you had alot of homework or a big test to study for, you wanted Speed. It was mostly just functional.

You follow Eddie back to his room.

"How many do you want?" He asks crouching down to the drawer where he keeps his stash.

"Five."

"Five," Eddie echoes, finding the pills and counting them out before putting them in a little baggie.

He stands, turning to hand you the bag.

"That'll be $75."

You take your wallet out of your back pocket, opening it up and counting the bills within.

Fuck. You're short. You're way short.

You count them again, and then again one more time.

"Is there a problem?" Eddie asks mildly.

You bite your lip, counting one more time just to be sure.

"Shit," you curse to yourself, staring down into your wallet, trying to think of anything else you could offer instead.

You've seen the way boys look at you now, Eddie included. Sometimes he stares too long at your mouth or your chest, or how you can generally feel his gaze when he thinks you won't notice.

And you can't deny you've done some looking yourself. Those soft brown eyes, long brunette hair, lean torso, slender hips. Nimble fingers that have expertly rolled joints for you.

You shut your wallet and slip it back into your back pocket.

"Look, I'm short," you say finally meeting Eddie's gaze, "but I can blow you for it." You offer casually like this is something you do all the time--offer blowjobs in exchange for drugs.

"Woah," Eddie says drawing the baggie back, "you know the rules. No cash, no drugs."

You take a step closer, and Eddie eyes you suspiciously.

"Didn't know you were one for following the rules," you lilt in return.

"Every man's gotta have a code," he replies very matter of fact. "Look, I could sell you less, how much cash do you have?"

You shake your head.

"No, that isn't going to work. I need five. I have to write my research paper this weekend."

Eddie's backed up against his nightstand now, and you just a few inches away.

"Not my problem, princess," he replies, turning to drop the baggie in the top drawer of his nightstand.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he's turned away, leaning back on your arms.

He's turns back to you now, caught off guard by the sight of you on his bed.

Sure you've been in his room before to buy, but you've never been on his bed, looking up at him through lowered lashes the way you are now.

You bite your lower lip now, intentionally this time, releasing it slowly and Eddie's brown eyes track the movement.

"You sure about that?" You ask.

Eddie curses softly and looks down at the floor, shaking his head. You're almost certain he's going to kick you out when he raises one finger.

"Just this one time," he says, lifting his head to look at you.

"Yeah," you say gently, nodding before he can change his mind and reach out to hook two fingers in his belt loop to tug him closer, "just this one time."

He sits on the bed next to you and you dispel any awkwardness by placing a hand on his thigh and turning your face into his neck.

He always smells good like cheap aftershave and cigarettes with the earthy tinge of pot just beneath, but it's so much better this close. Intoxicating. Your nose is brushing the skin of his throat and you can't help yourself, you press a kiss just beneath his jaw, and his breath catches. It's a strangely intimate gesture for a drug transaction, definitely something that Eddie wasn't expecting. You place another lingering kiss below it, sliding your hand higher up his thigh.

Eddie tilts his face up, allowing you more access to the line of his throat, and you leave a trail of kisses down to the collar of his shirt, undoing his belt and jeans. He's already half hard by the time you cup him through his boxers, teasingly stroking him through the fabric, before you pull your hand away, licking the palm, and slipping it past the fabric this time.

He bites back a little sound that goes straight through you and glance up to see him biting his lower lip, eyes closed. You look away before they can flutter open again, stroking him lazily, enjoying the feel of him beneath your hand, and it only takes a few strokes to get him hard.

You slip off the bed and onto the floor. Eddie spreading his legs wide for you to kneel between, watching you with darkened eyes. This should feel wrong. He's not some creep who exploits women for sexual favors. But somehow it doesn't. Not when you're looking up at him like that, like you actually want to be on your knees in front of him. He's gotten off to the thought of it before, but his imagination has been a poor substitute for the reality.

You pull his cock out from the slit in the front of his boxers. He has a nice cock. Grasping it lightly, you lean in, licking the underside of the head deliberately, keeping eye contact with him. Eddie's brows crease together, and he bites his lip again, moaning, continuing to watch as you close your eyes and begin to bob up and down, occasionally swirling your tongue around the tip.

He puts a hand on your head, rings tangling in your hair.

"Fuck," he sighs, "'s good."

Eddie finally closes his eyes and tips his head back. He's not going to last long at all if he continues to watch your pretty mouth swallow his length, and some selfish part of him wants this to last.

You glance up to see Eddie's closed eyes and upturned face, hair falling over his shoulders. Gorgeous. You take the opportunity to discreetly undo your jeans with your free hand and slip it into your panties where you're soaked and aching.

You hum around his length at finally getting some relief, but Eddie doesn't seem to notice, face still upturned. You continue to lick, suck, and stroke him and when you finally deepthroat him, he groans out a string of curses.

"God-motherfucking-damnit, sweetheart, fuck, yeah, so fucking good."

He looks down to see your hollowed out cheeks and your lips wrapped around the base of his cock. Can feel your throat flex as you try not to gag, and then your mouth is sliding back up again, bobbing to halfway a few times, before doing it again.

"Christ," Eddie slurs between labored breaths, fingers tightening in your hair, he wants more than anything to thrust up into that hot, wet mouth of yours.

He shifts his hips experimentally, shaft sliding against your tongue, and you take the hint, stilling for him, and he thrusts shallowly up into your mouth, just grazing the back of your throat. You can feel his cock begin to throb on your tongue and it's only a few more shallow thrusts before Eddie's moaning, loudly, spilling down your throat.

You swallow it all and suck him lightly through the aftershocks until he gives a hiss of oversensitivity, releasing him with a soft pop.

Eddie's catching his breath, looking down at you with wide dark, eyes. At your flushed cheeks and your swollen, spit slick mouth, just begging to be kissed.

You hold his gaze before slipping your other hand out of your panties, and the movement doesn't escape Eddie's notice. He's not sure how he hadn't noticed it before--

"Wait, were you?" He asks lowly.

"Yeah, I was," you admit plainly. No point in trying to deny what he had already seen.

Heat shoots straight down Eddie's spine.

"You think I'm just going to let you walk out of here with that pussy all wet for me," he says hotly and your eyes flicker, still processing his words as he hauls you up onto the bed with him.

He tucks himself back into his boxers before pushing you down against the mattress, pausing a moment before undoing your jeans, silently verifying permission, and you nod.

He pulls your jeans halfway down your thighs, staring at the wet spot soaking through your panties and groaning. He half lays on top of you, supporting himself on one arm as he pushes your panties to the side with his right hand, and slips two fingers inside you, voice cracking as you moan, you'd been so close when you were blowing him, and he doesn't waste anytime curling and pumping his fingers in a quick rhythm.

Your lower back curves away from the bed. His face is so close to yours. Your eyes meet, both dropping to the other's mouth and back again. Fuck. Eddie can't help himself, he kisses you, open and deep and sloppy, tongues sliding together, he pumps his fingers harder, pressing his thumb against your clit.

Your voice comes out embarrassingly high.

"Fuck, Eddie, yes," you keen, blacking out and clenching tightly around his fingers, you can even feel his rings, fuck, it's so good and he strokes you until your eyes flutter back open, then collapses next to you, face pressed against your shoulder.

It's just long moments of the sound of your breath together, and you're not sure what to say, but thankfully Eddie saves you.

"That was worth a lot more than five hits of Speed," he says contentedly.

"Do I still need to bring cash next time?" You ask, somewhat smug.

He nods against your shoulder before looking up at you.

"Sorry sweetheart, blowjobs don't pay the bills," he replies.

You laugh.

"A real businessman, aren’t you? Alright then," you get off the bed, zipping up your jeans, and generally straightening up, "I'll have cash next time." You promise, kissing him on the cheek.

He retrieves the baggie of Speed from his nightstand drawer and places it in your open palm.

"Great," he stands, zipping himself up as well.

Eddie walks you to the trailer door, stepping outside after you to have a smoke.

"Good luck with your paper," he calls, watching you walk away.

"Thanks, Eddie," you call back over your shoulder and get into your car.

Off to the library then.

[humanmorph]

pal33. i kind of just wanted to post a drawing but ended up writing a ton somehow...

I didn't take a ton of notes for this. I think it's mostly because it's so cold lately I don't feel like taking my hands out of my pockets, and also I'm not great at typing while walking so I'd have to stop, which, cold again!

Keith talking about how ruminating /calms Eclectic down/ made me grasp my head. Like in disbelief. I went HUH?! out loud. I still haven't quite pinned down the exact emotion that was brought forth by, but I think it was partly a kind of the feeling that I was actively being catered to when I wasn't expecting that OR even wanted it like. I already liked the guy. This was unnecessary. And the other part was that I love it. Absolutely obsessed with this flavour of weirdguy-ism. It's so good in a... Hm. Ok I'm having Eclectic thoughts that I'll hold onto for now, but like. "good to have a character sketch" yeah it sure is!

...and here are a bunch of other Eclectic thoughts that aren't the ones I just mentioned. i did not even expect to type all this when i started

(SANGFIELLE SPOILERS IN THIS PARAGRAPH? sorry.) It IS kind of strange to have a new character coming in this late w/ how close the Blue Channel crew is... I've noted before that it's like, different to other FatT seasons were everyone is just so coworkers ever (Sangfielle being the epitome of that. To Me. "[...] and it is you standing over the body of someone you used to work with." BANGER line). Even Phrygian was weird, but in a way that fit because of who they were. What also plays into this is noone except Figure really having space for gravity clocks. Which like... obviously characters can have relationships without those, but there's a reason they exist which is like, this is so important that it has mechanical advantage, or this is something I want to explore, like that means something? And I still wish Phrygian had had more, because the one with Figure didn't even end up coming up like, basically at all. It's a shame Brnine was so popular re: clocks bc those two could've really benefitted from a gravity clock, since they were together on missions a lot with the B-Plot thing. Well and also I liked them. Sigh ok I got sidetracked. Phrygian... But yeah, it may just be that this sortie is exterbating it bc Eclectic is literally by himself fucking around disconnected from everyone going through the horrors together (and that's bonding, baby!). I don't know how much longer the season will be, and maybe the feeling I currently have, which is like "it's the Blue Channel! ...and that other guy" will change. And like if it wasn't clear I do love that other guy I think that other guy is the most immediately compelling character Keith has had (similarly to Phrygian, actually. With Phrydge it was the concept & design that really excited me (Branched!!!) and with Eclectic it's that he's literally so funny and also Keith acts him great)! And he JUST got here, so I don't wanna be unfair. But it's been kicking around in my head & I wanted to write it down at least. It's like, would /I/ like his character to have a deeper connection to the rest of the player characters? Yeah generally I guess I would. Does Keith gaf about that as a player? I don't know that, but it's probably less of an impulse for him than, say, Ali. That would be my guess as a listener, anyways. And I hope Keith is having a better time playing now! It feels like it, but then again I also had no clue that he /didn't/ with Phrygian until he said it. (Still miss Phrygian though. Which is in combat with me being actually really happy with how they end up, like it might be the most a character 'death' on FatT has worked for me (not that there are /that/ many, but still).)

Back to. the episode: Good ep! I don't have all that much to say (OK. LIE). Just a thoroughly good time in a bunch of different ways. Love the singular character focus. Also just really Fun, like, made me laugh a lot. Fun interactions between good friends and whatnot. A bit that made me laugh was at the end when Ali was trying to figure out how to be find a way through the catacombs and suggests something that Austin has this "what?? no. thats scary." reaction to. Wait I'll just get it:

ALI: [talking about navigating the catacombs] And does it involve going through one of these body holes. AUSTIN: (genuinely aghast) Oh my god! ALI: Like, are there other tunnels. AUSTIN: There are other tunnels but you never have to go through a body hole- well, I shouldn't say never. That's SO creepy.

Which then gets the very great visual of Brnine doing that. Like it IS creepy and person having to crawl through tight space IS a thing that just gets me, even though it doesn't really get focus here I can't help but immediately picturing it... I was also for some reason expecting for there to be another body blocking the way... I've said this before and then was immediately like haha jk but I'm over it I will stop pretending I'm NOT kidding. I want Figure to roll worse. I miss Gur. Can you Fail Figure? I miss my friend Gur Sevraq. It's a thin line between that and Figure dying though (I DON'T WANT THIS. Because I want them to go further as a character but also, (thought I had only recently) what happens to my friend. Name of Gur Sevraq?). Anyways Gur... "This is false. But not all false things are impossible. And many have happened before." and "This is a thing that has already happened. She has seen it." <- has me sitting down and stapling my fingers. The. Perennial. Perennial

I don't have anything to say about Brnine aside from that I love them and that Ali is on her A-game. "Brnine is. Brnine and killed the president but is still a goofy loser" like. Ok. That's everything to me

The differences in, say, Thisbe's dream vision vs. Figures is interesting. And Cori falls somewhere in the middle? Like, Figure catching on really quickly, and also being in this situation of... all their friends are dead. People fear them. Being so immediately one that they are uncomfortable in & that feels somewhat alien vs. Thisbe being in a role that she envisions for herself and as such presumably feels comfortable in? Austin seems to be playing at the hooks with the visions (& they are what got immediately affected when they entered those), and for Figure it's probably "The only way to escape the Witch is by endangering others, but they seem eager to accept the risk." that feels the most relevant there? Maybe the Witch part less so, but least Austin mentioning that Cori specifically sacrificed herself to save Figure reminded me of this just now. For Thisbe it's "Fighting is not my purpose, but there is nowhere else for me until the fighting is over.", which I already talked a bit about above, though what's super interesting to me there is that this is obviously not all that's happening. I don't quite know what to do with there being More of Thisbe / units of her type... Or how she feels about that, if any which way. Cori's is interesting too because next to her sword + shield tenets being pulled in (specifically mentioning that they should be on the defense multiple times, which Cori ignores to charge ahead!) it's also the sense of her not wanting to be... underestimated or looked down on. Which is very much the vibe with Elle as a rival btw (it's fun. I'm happy Austin is having a good time with them lol). Oh! Also Austin says something about how it would've gone bad either way (even if Cori HAD stayed back to defend), which is another difference to both of the others visions, but expecially Thisbe's. Vibes just different. Well I'm curious what'll happen there next! Brnine is coming to visit! I didn't even mean to type this much but this really is very cool to me. I'm looping back around to what Gur said, too... Wish they were here...

Oh and Cori being glad to see Figure & hugging them really got to me too. They're sweet :' ).

and finally.

#MILLIEMENTION

I'm a simple woman I hear her name and I clap and cheer. originally this drawing was at the top but then I was like nah this is for people who either read everything OR clicked the readmore to then scroll past it... either way. work for it a little. i liked how it turned out! this is currently my new favourite brush.

[look-how-they-massacred-them]

Preliminary Poll

Richard "Dick" Simmons

Submission reason:

I apologize in advance for the amount of autism youre gonna have to read. Red team, the team that Simmons is on, has been the comedic butt of every joke for *years,* while blue team carries most of the plot. In recent seasons, individual members of red team have been given their own development. I won't get into detail about it, but almost every member of red team was given their own lore, motives, character growth, etc. Everyone except Simmons. Every opportunity to give Simmons his own individual depth as a character that didn't ALSO INVOLVE GRIF had been used as a joke. During an episode covering worst fears, Grif faces his own trauma from boot camp training, while his sister watches their childhood home burn down (I'm pretty sure, anyways. Its been a while since ive seen the season and you'd have to pay me to watch it again). When they get to Simmons' worst fear, it's used as a throwaway joke about penises (this part i am sure about. I remember being so mad i had to pause the video and sit there for a second). The writer of those seasons one time shared snippets of script that was cut from final production that supposedly featured an arc where simmons is tortured for information, but then after being asked about it, the same writer revealed that the ""torture"" was actually gonna be a joke about him getting his nails filed. With the series stuck in perpetual limbo due to Rooster Teeth's inability to write RvB well AND their constant scandals (unsurprising, honestly), Simmons has been stuck a boring, depthless character for the last 5 or so years, give or take.

Propaganda:

The writing in the newer seasons has been so tremendously bad that there existed a trend for a good year where the RvB fanbase made memes reacting to fake situations that they WISHED happened instead of what actually happened in the new seasons. I have read fanfiction of potential Simmons backstories since I was 11 (for reference, I'll be 20 in a few days) that are better written than actual official writing for Simmons. Simmons has referenced an abusive home life on more than one occassion (again, mostly used for jokes, but this dates back to the early seasons where everything is a joke for red team) that could easily be used as a backstory for him, but has since been ignored. Which is strange, because Grif's exact same joke comments about a tough home life in the early seasons WERE utilized to further his backstory in the new seasons. Another extremely often under-utilized fact about simmons is that he's a CYBORG he has CYBORG BODY PARTS and they are NEVER REFERENCED. NEVER UTILIZED. I HAVE MET PEOPLE THAT FORGOT HE WAS EVEN A CYBORG AND ASKED ME WHY I WAS DRAWING HIM LIKE THAT IN MY VIDEOS. Also, I don't really like throwing around the word queer-baiting, especially when it comes to fandom spaces, so this is more like... queer-teasing??? But Rooster Teeth loves playing along with their fanbase with Grif and Simmons potentially being a couple (social media posts putting them into couples posts, using them for valentines cards, having the characters use the ship name to address themselves in spin-off non-canon episodes), but then tiptoe around the idea of actually making them a couple in any of their canon media. Like it's not slowburn at this point it's been 20 years and we've gotten vague jokes about fucking in a broom closet and beating someone up for asking them to kiss. Im so tired of the will-they-wont-they i dont even want them canon anymore i just want to know if theyre actually gonna do it or not for the love of god. Tldr rvb writers love using simmons as the ""haha nerd thinks hes smart but hes actually stupid and embarrassing"" trope and keep only writing him like that despite every other character around him getting developed, and with the series in limbo he's now stuck like that. Free my boy, Rooster Teeth. Let me write him I promise I'll do a good job.

[solar-nightengale]

Ahahha one conversation led to an idea so naturally talking about young Pinocchio/August and Emma led to the creation of this. It WAS supposed to be just a short little little thing but that would mean I'm capable of writing anything below 500 words (hint: it's impossible)

ANYHOW uhhhhhh 🥰🥰🥰

(This takes place as a mini scene between Pinocchio's question and the cut to the next shot of young!Emma at the police station in 06x11 - Tougher than the Rest)

“Is this really the fate you want?” Emma followed the stranger’s gaze to a group of teens nearby, standing, shivering, by a pit of fire of their own. It subconsciously had her drawing a little closer to her own. Still she felt the guy's eyes trace back to her again.

“Maybe your last home was bad,” he continued, Emma looking over at him now. The inquisitive head tilt of his was still present and it was now accompanied by a small smile. “Doesn’t mean you won’t find a good one someday.”

The young girl watched him carefully, eyes still narrowed up at the stranger. Part of her said that maybe she should just walk off. Or tell him to leave actually, yes. Maybe burn the pages he insisted she keep too. Just out of spite. And yet all she could do was sit there and stare at the title of the page still clutched in her hands. The warmth of the barrel brought a little relief to her cold fingers chilled by the winter air, but sitting by it even now she found herself shivering a little.

It had been a few days since she ended up on the streets. A few days and while she had mostly gotten used to what it was like out here, to the looking for places to camp out at night and the scavenging… she’d give anything to be in a comfortable bed again.

But a comfortable bed would only last so long she had discovered. It was only a matter of time before she was considered second rate again; an extra piece. It was only a matter of time before they got tired of her. Like she was just a toy to play with. Was that comfort worth the feeling of safety in a place that continued to bully her?

The boy’s words continued to play in her head. Doesn’t mean you won’t find a good one someday.

… She wanted that… she really, really wanted that. She wanted to find that home… those people that cared. She’d give anything to get that feeling of belonging.

She glanced away from him and back down at the fire, her lips pursed as she pondered intensely.

…

The sound of shuffling next to her had her glancing to the side once again, seeing the boy getting up with a quiet sigh and she hastily looked down at the pages again.

Change fate…  If she believed strongly she could change her fate? It sounded like some silly fantasy but she… she couldn’t help but grasp for it. Similar to how she grabbed the boy’s pant leg before he could even try to leave.

“Umm…” she started, looking up at him. The boy stopped and turned. “I… don’t really know where to go,” she admitted quietly. She was sure she had passed a police station at some point but for a while she had been sticking close to the alleyways and out of people’s ways. It was hard to tell where she had seen it now, sitting here under this bridge.

She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but she couldn’t help but think his eyes seemed to lighten up a bit at her comment. “Would you like a little help with that?” He held a hand out for her to take as he asked.

Hesitation lasted a lot shortly now, her mind made up a touch as she carefully folded the page back into the book and stuffed that back into the deep, inner pocket of her coat. All set, she stood up, taking his hand with a quiet “yes, please.”

He carefully led her out from under the bridge, and out into the open. She couldn’t help but feel too… exposed. And small. Daytime made things easier to navigate but the night was different. It felt different. It always did. She stuck close to the welcomed stranger as they walked, his hold firm yet somehow gentle at the same time. It felt nice for once. Though strange but nice. It was nice not to be alone for once, she had to admit that.

Her eyes continued to wander as they walked through the streets, eventually moving out of the alleyways. Even from afar she could see the police station they were approaching, her hand slowly pulling out of his. Closer and closer they got until they were only a few steps away from the stairs up to the door.

She breathed out, turning to the boy she had walked ahead of. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” He smiled, fixing the strap of his bag as she turned back to the station. He clapped a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Take care, kid.”

She spun around the moment he pulled back, right as he walked off. “Wait I- I didn’t get your name, WAIT!” she called out, as she ran to the alleyway he had walked off into, “Hey! Hey, where’d you-” Where’d you go?

Her gaze darted from the left and to the right, hoping to catch sight of him still, squinting in the dark for any shadow for the boy that had led her here. Yet she saw nothing. It was like he had vanished… but despite his big talk of fairy tales she knew a person couldn’t just do that.

She didn’t even get his name…

She glanced over at the station again, hesitant now without the presence of another individual.

Change her fate. That’s what he said she could do.

She took a couple of steps towards the station and wandered inside, welcoming the warmth she had missed so much.